We're All Mad Here
by Tsume Yuki
Summary: Tom Riddle was just doing his rounds as Head Boy, when the corridor opened up beneath his feet and swallowed him whole. Getting sucked into a twisted version of Wonderland just before he graduates was not in the plan. Then again, the Master of Death wasn't included in anyone's plans. In which Harry successfully screws over everyone.
1. I

**We're All Mad Here**

 **I**

Tom Riddle is completing his rounds, patrolling Hogwart's hallowed halls as his Head Boy duties dictate, when the section of the floor he is stepping onto abruptly evaporates into nothingness.

Overbalanced, Tom falls forwards, the hole within the floor growing to accommodate his falling form and then swallowing him whole.

For a moment, there's nothing but darkness, a weightless fall as Tom screams in surprise. It's nothing like the drop into the Chamber; there he has the ancient stone pressing against his back as he falls, the surety of the stone eventually curving out into a smooth surface.

There are no such reassurances here.

Tom twists his body, but all that passes by him is air, kissing at every inch of his exposed skin and lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

His wand is in his hand not a second later, a lumos leaving from between dry lips. Instantly his surroundings are illuminated, and Tom feels his stomach drop out from his chest, as if he's left it somewhere far, far above him.

He can't see the bottom.

There's no sure wall around him, instead a faded haze of substances that he clearly has no hope of catching and holding onto.

Panic well and truly surging, Tom has no problem shouting the spell to slow his fall. But the magic just washes over him, ineffective, doing absolutely nothing.

Screaming, Tom tries a second time, feeling his control, the perfect control that has not failed him since his first meeting with Dumbledore, shatter like porcelain around him.

He is the Head Boy. He is the best student to walk the halls of Hogwarts since Albus Dumbledore himself, if not the best! He is Lord Voldemort!

And yet, he's still falling, still unable to stop his fall. Nothing is working, every spell that leaves his wand coils like smoke away from him, splutters like smoke and disperses. His muscles, once tense and holding him steady, begin to spasm in response to his panic.

Tumbling head over heels, Tom can barely make sense of what is up and what is down, just that he is still in motion, that he is still falling and he will die from this speed. The impact will kill him.

Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, a flashback to the Defence lesson on Boggarts, seeing his own lifeless eyes staring back at him. Only, at this rate, he won't have any eyes to glaze over. He'll be lucky if he's recognisable as a human at this speed.

His mind is blind with panic, so much so that it takes a few seconds for him to realize that he is starting to slow. It is not until it his stomach has been returned to him -albeit, feeling as if it has been stretched, shrunk, shaken, and then stirred for good measure- that he realizes the momentum has lessened.

Daring to open his eyes, Tom finds himself still falling; where there had been indistinguishable forms before, now only the paradoxical sky, both night and day at the same time, sat all around him, both sun and moon watching his fall.

He wonders if this is how Icarus felt.

Tom has not even questioned his safety at Hogwarts. Not when he ruled Slytherin with an iron fist. Not when Dumbledore was nothing more than a minor annoyance and Grindelwald's march upon Europe still so far from British shores.

He has been a fool, he realizes. He has fallen into the same rose tinted world as the rest of the sheep, and if he ever lives through this, whatever it is, then he will never allow the world to take upon that sweet colouring again.

As if registering his decision, the world speeds up around him, and Tom finds himself plummeting faster than ever.

His heart leaps into his throat when there is suddenly a surface in sight, the ground, and he attempts one last spell before contact is made.

.

Only, he doesn't die.

.

It's as if he has been saved by the softest of substances, so comfortingly secure in the way that it catches him that he drops his wand in shock. It's nonsensical, because the wooden floor beneath him is anything but soft. In fact, some of the board are loose, a multitude of splinters poking at his fingers. The room smells musky, an evident lack of fresh air lingering in every inch of space. There's a crack of light, a perfectly straight angle of brightness seeping in through a pin thin opening.

After a mere moment, in which Tom processes the concept of falling for hours and seconds, falling so fast and yet emerging unhurt, he realizes exactly where he is. Or rather, what he is in.

He is in a cupboard.

Snarling, Tom shoots to his feet, his head slamming into the suddenly very unexpected, very low ceiling. Hissing beneath his breath, the teen rubs at the tender skin of his skull, blow not in the least bit cushioned by his thick hair. What is going on? He had just been falling down at a terrifying rate, a plummet really, and now there's a ceiling above his head? What madness is this?

The muffled sounds from outside have dulled, until they are completely silent, leaving Tom hunching awkwardly within the confined space. No, this simply wouldn't do.

Teeth grinding and feeling that he is very much justified with his use of magic -is he even in Hogwarts anymore?-, Tom gave a twirl of his wand and blasted the door right off its hinges. There's an almighty crash, far more than what a thin wooden door should allow, and Tom watches in surprise as the projectile goes right through the brickwork of the adjacent wall.

He stares for a mere moment, cringing backwards when the wall bubbles and begins to fill in the hall, until it has managed to restore itself with but a few seconds of healing. What in the world?

A sudden screech from his left has Tom twisting around to face the threat, a curse upon the tip of his tongue, but he finds himself faltering in sheer surprise.

A horse of a woman stares back at him. No, she is not a centaur, nor is she a woman with an unfortunately long face. Well, the latter is actually quite true, but she's not human. She cannot possibly be. Like some demented cross between a horse and a human, the woman sheers and him, lips curled back over her teeth and snapping in a similar manner to what he had seen the Thestrals and Unicorns -though that had always been from a sizable distance- perform.

"Freak!" She cries, the rest of her words lost between the neighs that leave her lips, foot hitting the ground in fury.

Tom sneers right back, for while he may not know who this woman is, why she is before him or why she is so horrendously ugly, he knows an insult when it is delivered.

"I think the freak is you," Tom snarls in return, polite façade of Head Boy, the perfect Slytherin Student, dripping from his face like water upon glass.

Deciding he has wasted enough time, Tom flicks his wand, completing the transformation himself. Where the woman had once stood, a horse half the size stumbles, placed under a silencing charm when it attempts to vocalize its panic.

"What have you done to my wife?! Freak! I'll beat it out of you!"

Tom's sharp dark eyes snap up to the stairwell, right above the cupboard he has just escaped from. It's exactly like the horse woman, only this time it appears as if the man is a horrific walrus humanoid. That moustache- really, he'd be doing the world a favour by killing that thing off.

Flicking is wand again, Tom watches as the great beast's legs merge together, sending it crashing down the stairs in a flailing heap of blubbery fat. Disgusting.

Approaching the threshold from which he had previously emerged, Tom places one sure hand on the outside of the wall before cautiously poking his head back in.

Only to be met with the same sight. A low level ceiling, a single light bulb still dancing upon it's thin chain in the aftermath of the Walrus' fall. Delightful.

But that does not give him the slightest indication of what has happened. If anything, the disappearing corridor that had once housed the sky, the fall from Hogwarts that had panicked him like nothing before ever had, chills his innards.

How is he suppose to get back, if the way in which he came has vanished? Another of Hogwarts' many secrets? No, surely there would have been the slightest hint of something like that in the books focused solely upon Hogwarts?

Unless he is the first to have survived it? No, that can't possibly be right.

It is certainly a bitter potion to swallow, but Tom knows that it was nothing under his power that stopped his fall, that saved his life. It's sickening to admit, and it most certainly burns at his pride. He, Hogwarts' most capable student, had been unable to take his own life into his hands when it counted.

Now, he's in this strange place, so unlike Hogwarts he's beginning to believe that he is in fact, no longer within the school at all.

No, he can handle this. He is of age, he can legally use magic outside of Hogwarts' ancient walls, he can sort out this mess on his own. He is Tom Marvolo Riddle, he is Lord Voldemort, and he knows what he is doing.

Fingers running over the ring upon his finger, the Horcrux that resides upon his person, Tom knows he can handle anything. Because even if it strikes a fatal blow, it will not kill him. Kill his body, yes. But now, he can always get a new one. He is Tom Riddle, he is immune to death, he has beaten death and gone further than any wizard before him.

He can handle this.

Tom Riddle doesn't even blink when the whale humanoid comes out of what is clearly a kitchen, clutching something horribly greasy within his plump appendages, stuffing his face with some other disgustingly muggle food.

Making a clean sweep of the place, Tom transfigures the male into the baby whale that he is clearly training to become. Gaze cool as he looks upon the mammal upon the floor. It will die without any water, but he cannot bring himself to care.

Instead, he turns on heel, heading for the front door and pulling it open.

The sight that greets him is not welcomed at all.

.

While the house had been muggle, so disgustingly muggle, it had been at the very least familiar. Tom stares, uncomprehendingly at the sight before him.

It is not a street that sits before him, it is not a road or a neatly trimmed garden. It is not a paved walkway, nor a concrete path.

Instead, a seemingly endless stretch of grass lays before him. Rainbow grass. As tall as his knees. Anything, anything at all could be hidden in that vegetation. The colours even cycle through the kaleidoscope, a sea of ever-changing shades that threaten to sear his eyesight.

No. Lord Voldemort will not put up with this madness.

Drawing his wand, Tom watches the fire whip out from the end, sparking through the dry grass like a snake in motion. It all goes up in flames, multiplying faster than even the multiplication of a Gemino curse.

Quickly applying a flame-freezing charm, Tom tentatively steps out into the blaze, a bubblehead charm quickly following when the smoke begins clogging his nostrils.

The burning fury that lashes out around his body tastes like the darkest chocolate, sweet and deliciously bitter, all at once.

He has a single minute, a lone minute in all the madness that has suddenly gripped his life so ferociously, in which he regains total control of the situation.

.

Then the rug is once again pulled from under his feet.

.

The flames snuff out, every last inch of the wildfire dying off, all at once. Trees sprout up from the ashes, dark grey and rotten, rising up and curling towards the sky. The grass springs back to life, but as dark as the charcoal it rises from. Sinister and minacious in appearance, it instantly sets Tom on edge.

And then, he is no longer alone.

"Greetings!"

The cheerful heralding has Tom's head snapping up to look at the source, and he freezes in place.

A boy sits in one of the trees. A thin shirt, black as sin and rolled up to expose his pale forearms covers his torso, trousers of a similar shade tucked into dark grey, dragonhide boots. His hair is wild, a riot of curls that flick out in every direction, covering his ears but failing to fall much further. They do an admirable job of hiding his forehead, though the large, circular spectacles that shield his eyes draw far too much attention to his face.

Given the brilliant vibrancy of his green eyes though, what attention the spectacles would lose would probably double in the face of those irises.

Most interestingly of all, green markings the same shade as the killing curse filter across his face, dipping low in a curve around his eyes like particularly fierce war paint. He appears unlike anyone Tom has ever seen.

He also does not have the time, nor the patience for this.

"What is this place?"

The boy with the brilliant green markings leans forwards, until disturbingly, he is no longer in the tree at all. Instead, he floats just before it, on level with its limbs but completely unsupported. The bright eyes blink at him, seemingly both too large and too old for his face.

And then, he smiles. It's an easy gesture and full of teeth. Tom is instantly on edge.

"It's mine," the boy claims, arms spread outwards and he slowly rolls in place, until he's belly up and neck arching back to continue holding Tom's stare, "like Wonderland but not. Let's call it Hallowland."

That sounds ominous.

"I'm sure you'll find some familiar faces here," the boy continues, as if all of this is just a common occurrence, as if there is no need to be alarmed. But Tom has been kidnapped, right out of the heart of Hogwarts, and he will not stand for it.

"I think I'll take on the roll of the guide. After all, the cat turns invisible, and so do I."

And then he's gone.

Tom can't tell if he's still present and just invisible, or if the stranger has disappeared completely.

Wand still held tight within his grip, the Slytherin carefully steps in a circle, searching. The psychedelic colours of before sit heavy in his mind, having imprinted their obnoxious brightness upon his mind.

Golden snitches flutter through the abruptly sky in flocks, ducking and diving and making a general nuisance of themselves, as usual. The twisted offspring of Devil's Snare and the Giant Squid little the ground, suctioned tentacles flopping uselessly around in whatever puddles they can find. There are snakes in the trees, hissing nonsensical words and just being irritatingly unhelpful.

"I suppose you could call me Cheshire, or Cat," the boy's voice echoes around the clearing, and all that Tom can see is that sharp grin, appearing upon every surface, "or Just Harry."

"Harry," Tom repeats dully.

Has the man, boy, whatever he is, just proclaimed himself to be 'Harry'?

Surely not. Surely someone strong enough to overpower Hogwarts wards has to have a more magnificent name, a more awe inspiring title than 'Harry'.

"It's Just Harry actually. It's the first time I'll get to play that role, play by my own rules. I do believe I'll rather enjoy it. You better hurry along, Tom Riddle. Sometimes forever is only a second, and sometimes, a second is forever. No matter which is correct, you are late."

And then all the smiles are gone.

.

* * *

.

He's been walking for what seems like hours, though he cannot exactly say for sure. Physics escapes this place; he's seen collections of earth hovering above the ground like weightless moons, water rising from its rivers and dancing through the sky as rain falling upwards. His lips do not crack dry from the pain of dehydration, nor does his stomach rumble and growl with vicious hunger.

Time seems to have lost all meaning in this place, as he passes through wastelands of flora and jungles of animals.

The snakes he meet speak of nothing but nonsense, praising the Deathspeaker, giver of life. None of them will even design to hold a conversation with him, let alone give him any answers. For a boy that's always had snakes prostrating themselves before him, willing to obey his every command; well, it throws Tom off his game. Slightly, he can still work with this, can still power through, but the discomfort is there. It lingers like a particularly stubborn curse, a constant reminder that keeps him alert and on edge.

"Point me Hogwarts," Tom hisses furiously beneath his breath, watching his wand spin, hopelessly lost, around in the centre of his palm.

Thirteen and a half inches of Yew has never seemed so less, so understated, in this moment. His magic, all the magic he has tried to escape this place with has been met with no success. Apperation is useless, his three attempts have ended with him falling over his own heels when completing the spin, the only place that attempt of magical transportation has taken him is straight to the ground. Even the Point-Me spell is failing him.

Tom stares forlornly at the wood within his hand, the wand that is a reflection of his current state, each as lost as the other. His mind begins to trail back to the stranger -Just Harry- and his words.

Tom quickly banishes the thought, refusing to acknowledge it. The rule of three applies here. If it doesn't work after the third time, then logic dictates that the results of such actions taken afterwards would continue to fail. Only a fool repeats their actions expecting change to occur.

"Point me Hogwarts," he all but snarls at the wand, watching as it simply continued to spin in useless circles. Merlin damn it. If his wand continuously fails to find Hogwarts, a location swamped in magical power that has stood for a thousand years, it has no hope of locating something as weak as London.

"What in Salazar's name is a 'Hallowland' anyway." It is not a question, more of an angry statement.

As such,

Tom is utterly surprised, but not unprepared, when he gets an answer.

"It's my world."

"Stupefy!"  
The spell crackles through the air, the fastest casting Tom has ever completed. It's on target, and now, Tom will have someone to interrogate. He will finally find out what the hell is going on.

Only, the spell passes right through him. Like smoke, the boy's body phases around the spell as it passes harmlessly through his apparently incorporeal form, ruffling the silvery fluid of the cloak upon his shoulders.

"That's not very friendly."

Tom doesn't care.

"Where am I." His temper is burning, decorum fraying at the edges and leaving his magic to spark angrily throughout the vicinity. One of the closer trees is steadily melting.

"I told you, it's Hallowland. If you want to get out, you have to collect the keys. I even gave you one to start with."

The boy disappears, leaving only a floating, glowing symbol in his place. It scars the air, a brilliant green that matches Just Harry's eyes.

More importantly though, Tom knows that sigil. It's Grindelwald's symbol, that sits and floats heavy in the air.

That doesn't make any sense though, this is nothing like the attacks in Europe, and why would the Dark Lord go out of his way to cause so much trouble for a Hogwarts student, of all people?

No, it's not right, which means he has to search for other answers. He remembers reading that Grindelwald had taken an archaic sigil, that he had perverted it's legend, but for the life of him, Tom cannot remember anything else. Oh how he wishes for Hogwarts and its library. It would give him the answers he now finds himself forced to seek.

No, wait, he has seen that particular symbol before.

Glancing down at the ring, at the Horcrux upon his hand, Tom runs a shaking finger across the stone's surface. Embedded within, seemingly carved deep in the centre of the ugly gem, sits the very same image as what is currently projected within the air. Something to do with the Peverell family then, he remembers his deranged uncle bragging of such a thing, deep within his twisted mind.

The boy cannot be asking him to collect his own Horcruxes; not only should the stranger not know of them, but he most certainly shouldn't connect them to this particular sigil. His diary has nothing to do with that. Plus, Just Harry seems to have indicated that there are more than two, of whatever he has to collect. For he has already been given one, but instructed him to collect 'they keys'.

So, at least two other objects, related to that symbol to locate and acquire. How infuriating.

No, he is Lord Voldemort. He will find his own way out of this. He will not rely upon a being crazier than even Dumbledore to guide him to freedom.

Decision made, Tom stalks forwards, ignoring the blinking green eyes that seem to flash from surface to surface, from existence to non-existence.

"Where are you going, Tom?"

Gritting his teeth at the name, Tom ignores the question, wand still in hand. The stranger might be able to phase through spells, but that doesn't mean Tom cannot shield himself, cannot effect the environment he inhabits.

"Tom?"

"Go away," he snarls, lips curling in displeasure at the voice that still calls out to him with a detached curiosity.

"I don't need to go away, you seem to be quite content to leave without asking me any questions."

Tom ignores him.

.

He walks and walks and walks. He walks until his feet ache and his toes plea for mercy and still he walks.  
The finishing line of what has seemed to be an endless journey among the grasslands comes abruptly, and as maddeningly derisory as everything else that has occurred since falling through the floor. If not more so than anything else, because this sight is far more welcomed while simultaneously being as twistedly perverted as everything else.

Tom has always considered Quidditch a waste of time, but now, looking upon this-this travesty, he longs for the famed Hogwarts games.

It's sheer madness before him, more so than anything else he has seen yet since being pulled into this twisted world. Maybe it is because he is familiar with Quidditch, more so than the strange house he was dropped into, or the endless plainland that he has been crossing ever since. Mayhap it is because he recognises those that take part in this charade of a sport, and it tears at his self confidence to witness others playing along with the demented stranger's world.

Though he finally understands why this all seems familiar.

He has well and truly fallen down the rabbit hole.

Above him, Lestrange, Malfoy and Avery soar through the air, mounted upon broomsticks. This in itself would not be an unusual sight, given that all three were active members of the Slytherin Quidditch team back at Hogwarts.

What strays from the norm, what leaves Tom feeling so magnificently unsettled, is that his fellow students are most certainly not playing Quidditch.

It's an unholy alliance between order and chaos, between a tea party and Quidditch.

A table, large enough that it could possibly have been stolen right from the Great Hall floats dead within the centre of the Quidditch pitch, placed an even space from each set of goals. Large rivers of tea stream through the air like twisting serpents, unbound by gravity, giant lumps of undissolved sugar bobbing about within their liquid streams. The goal hoops that stand in a collective trio at each end of the pitch have all been replaced, giant teacups balanced precariously upon equally giant spoons instead.

Tom watches with a detached sense of horror as his Knights of Walpurgis fly seamlessly together, only to throw obnoxiously bright cupcakes each the size of a quaffle towards the substituted goals. The desserts curve around in the base of the teacups, before soaring back out, leaving the noble heirs to attempt catching them with nothing but their mouths. Given the sheer size of the pastries, it's unsurprisingly that all they can manage is a simple mouthful before the rest splatter upon their robes, their broomsticks, before finally falling down to the earth.

Liquid honey glistens golden as the afternoon sun catches each droplet during its falls from the underside of the floating table. The table surface itself is covered in fine china of all colours, breeding new desserts for the Slytherins to pick up and launch at the teacups. They're covered in confectionary. It certainly brings a whole new meaning to the phrase 'playing with your food'.

Perhaps, Tom thinks, this is what shock feels like.

Certainly he cannot bring himself to do more than stare at the very sight before him, as if looking hard enough will break the illusion that he is surely trapped within.

But no, it doesn't happen.

In the same moment Tom manages to shake himself free of the stupor that grips him so tightly, the floating table gives an almighty sneeze, rattling all the contents upon its surface and spraying out great geysers of buttercream.

Drumming up every last ounce of patience within his body -he finds himself unnervingly ill-equipped to deal with all of this- Tom raises his wand to his throat and casts a Sonorus charm.

"Avery! Lestrange! Malfoy!"

He doesn't need to ask any questions, because the three freeze upon their brooms, a particularly heavy looking cake smashing into Lestrange's face when he's too slow to dodge it.

Three sets of wide eyes turn down to stare at him, and Tom is uncomfortably reminded of watching his classmates awaken from the Imperius curse. Given the state of the continent, Dippet had called an Auror in, to showcase the Unforgivables to them. Tom had resisted the Imperio, but he had been the only one.

"My Lord?" Malfoy babbles, words slurred, as if he has drunk far too much syrup. For how long they appear to have been playing -quite a while, given the state of their dessert caked robes- it is possible that's exactly the case.

Tom raises a simple eyebrow as the trio steadily float down, looking more and more confused as they close the distance between them.

It is only as they get closer that Tom realizes the trio are not, in fact, dressed in robes, but neither are they garbed in muggle clothes. That is saying nothing off the accessories they sport.

Rather, Lestrange is wearing the most ridiculous hat Tom has ever seen in his life, and with Dumbledore for a teacher, the Heir of Slytherin has seen his fair share of stupid clothing.

Hanging from his waist, Malfoy has a pocketwatch so large that is cannot even be called such a thing. The face of the clock is absurd, intricate gold edging and offensively large.

Avery carries a sword, which in itself would not be so unusual were it not for the fact there seemed to be tiny little mice engraved upon its every surface, dancing with one another.

"My Lord- What- Where are we?" Lestrange aborts his sentence twice before he settles upon the last one.

Tom is still staring at that stupid hat.

Acknowledging the problem, Avery knocks the hat right off his fellow Slytherin's head, leaving all four bamboozled when the displaced hat reveals an exact replica lies beneath it. It's the exact same size; Tom does not even want to begin touching the physics of that thing right now.

"We've been kidnapped," Tom declares bluntly, mind whirling. If these three are here, who else has Just Harry pulled into this insanity? What kind of power would all of this take? It is almost inconceivable.

Certainly the kind of power that has Tom itching to break into hysterical laughter. What is this twisted place doing to him?

"Kidnapped?!" Squawks Lestrange, wrestling with the hat that just births more and more of its kind upon his head, each one disappearing like smoke when they hit the floor, It would seem that particular accessory is rather against being removed.

"I have no idea who he is, or what he wants…"

Slowly, Tom painstakingly outlines all that he has learnt so far; from the stranger with the green markings, to the evident lack of physics, even his embarrassing capture via the hole in the floor.

Unhelpfully, none of the others remember how they appeared here. In fact, they cannot recall anything past going to sleep within their dorm, and then the next thing they know, they're wearing clothing that looks like it was plucked straight from Dumbledore's wardrobe if it'd been smothered in frosting.

Neither can they give him a valid reason as to why they were playing that bastardized version of Quidditch. Tom had not believed himself capable of finding a game more absurd than Quidditch, but, here it is.

As if that were not, something else comes right out of nowhere to top off his ludicrous day.

"I say Froge! There's cakes and tea!"

"Good show Gred, good show!"

Twins, ginger with freckles faces and wings sprouting from their backs in a garnish shade of canary yellow swoop down upon the table. They hover there, mass of xanthous feathers working overtime as they pretend to sit in midair, helping themselves to cakes and pastries now that his fellow Slytherins are no longer using them as projectiles.

"Cream pies, Gred! Cream pies!"

All four Slytherins present stare unabashedly, watching as the duo proceed to gorge themselves upon the sweet treats, bodies steadily enlarging.

It takes Tom a few seconds to organise his thoughts, and then he realizes exactly where this is going.

"We need to leave, now."

The trio do not question his harried command, instead scampering towards the edge of the pitch, dropping the chocolate sticks that were once broomsticks as they go.

.

They clear the hill that was most certainly not there when he first arrived just in time.

The redhead twins explode in a shower of fireworks, an intimidating loud display of vibrant colours that form pictures and words, all of which pass by far too quickly for Tom to actually take them in.

Sitting upon the long blue grass, he considers that perhaps he is not as free of that shock as he had first thought. Or maybe this is all some kind of horrible, potion induced dream.

How sad a state of affairs it must be, for Tom to prefer a hallucinogenic potion being slipped into his morning coffee -he will never look at tea in the same way again- by an ambitious classmate, than to what appears to be reality.

At least he is no longer alone in his suffering, the trio seem just as flabbergasted, if not even more dumbstruck than what he was to begin with.

"Well, I see you've met Gred and Forge."

And there's the green eyed asshole.

.

* * *

 **Ah, I have no idea what I'm writing here. I just got the idea, and rolled with it. It was gonna be a oneshot, but then ideas kept coming, and more and more characters kept muscling in, so I stopped after the first 5,000ish words to post it as a chapter.**

 **Anyway, welcome to Harry's Wonderland.** **Featuring the delights of;** **Harry as the Cheshire Cat, guest appearances from a very confused Gellert Grindelwald, a Queen of Lemondrops, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret, and the very unamused Tom Riddle. And of course, many more.**

 **Otheriwse known as I wanted to write some Gen and something absurd. There's very little plans for this, other than a few characters cast in roles that may change, a very happy Basilisk and Harry's love of delicious irony.**

 **Thoughts?**

 **Tsume**

 **xxx**


	2. II

**We're All Mad Here**

 **II**

Just Harry is standing before them without even the slightest bit on concern on his painted face.

His clothing has changed since Tom's last interaction with him; now a lightweight white shirt covers his torso, the sleeves billowing out before suddenly gathering at the wrist, and half of his bare chest on show due to the lazily laced collar. The same strange markings cover the pale skin exposed by the half closed shirt, though the silvery cape remains. The trousers are a near copy of before too, though they glimmer an incredibly dark green beneath the midday sun, tucked into dark leather boots.

Tom's not even going to try and figure out the lacework on those boots, he doesn't want to know in the slightest how the mad stranger has positioned the laces so that they tie in the shape of his strange symbol.

The obnoxiously creepy grin is back too.

"Who?" Malfoy croaks out beside him, and Tom is reminded that these three idiots don't know any better, don't know that they should ignore everything this stranger does -this untouchable strange that Tom cannot hurt, and thus cannot defend himself from- and just continue on like he's not there.

If anything, Just Harry looks over the moon that they're acknowledging him, jumping forwards in a way that gravity should not be allowing. It's just too springy, too free to be bound by the physics of earth. Then again, this place isn't quite earth as Tom knows it.

As if to further prove his point, Just Harry takes one more leap and comes to rest in the air, floating there harmlessly upon his front and at eye level with the quickly back-pedalling Slytherins. Now they look a bit more alarmed.

Good, now they might take this threat a bit more seriously.

"Fred and George, or Gred and Froge as they prefer," Just Harry states, flicking the feather adornments tied in his hair back over his shoulder. Tom recognises the feathers of a hippogriff, a golden snidget, a phoenix and the scarlet plume of a male basilisk. A vast array, and the last one is quite worrying indeed.

"They're twins, pranksters, wannabe Marauders."

The grin widens impossibly so, until Just Harry's face is literally splitting at the seams and he dissolves into multiple wisps of thin smoke.

Lestrange swears under his breath, eyes wide even as the brim of his ridiculous hat droops down over the bridge of his nose. Malfoy and Avery are no better.

"If you're looking for the exit, then you want to head east," Just Harry's voice echoes across the hilltop, the same strange symbol that he has adopted appearing in the air before them, "you'll find a key there."

Tom doesn't trust a single word out of this maniac's mouth. Instead, he glares at the symbol -wishing that the stranger wasn't capable of complete invisibility so that he might turn his furious gaze upon him- even as his mind spins. Tom is a master of lies, of sugar coated promises that turn to ash in your mouth.

Yet, he cannot tell for the life of him if the stranger speaks truths, and so, elects to ignore every damn word he says.

"Which way is east anyway?" Malfoy snaps, glaring up at the midday sun, which has sat right above their heads for an undetermined amount of time. Once again, the stupidity of wizards astounds Tom as he lays is wand flat upon his palm and eyes the floating symbol one more time.

"Point me, east."

The wand rolls, twisting in his hand before -for the first time since he fell through the floor- it settles in a certified direction.

"Finally," Tom whispers beneath his breath and begins striding off in the opposite direction. If Just Harry wants him to go east, then Tom shall travel west. His fingers itch to understand the significance of the symbol that Just Harry uses for his own, that even a wizard as powerful as Grindelwald claims as his own sigil. It clearly holds some kind of significance, but what?

"Why's the Deathly Hallows symbol hanging in the air?" Avery whispers, one hand resting warily upon the hilt of his highly decorated sword, a pucker between his brows.

Tom skids to a halt at that, swinging around to stare at Avery as both Malfoy and Lestrange goggle at him.

"What?"

"How'd you recognise it as that? It's been years since I've heard that story."

As usual, Tom's muggle raised background once again tripped him up, has left him with less of an understanding than what these Purebloods hold. Anger burns, both at his useless mother and his disgusting muggle father, but Tom forcibly pushes it down and focuses on the here and now.

"Explain."

Avery jumps at the command, but complies, hastily explaining the tale of the Three Brothers, of the two that succumbed to Death and the one that greeted it with open hands. Tom rather liked the youngest brother until he heard that last part.

"-it's said that collecting all three Hallows makes one the Master of Death, though obviously no one has ever actually managed that."

Silence sits heavy in the air, and the only question running through Tom's head is why he didn't know of this sooner. He of all people knows that every legend holds a grain of truth; the muggles have books on wizards, dragons and phoenixes, and they're all true. What is to stop a wizarding tale from being more than a simple myth?

Though they have walked away from the hill, the sigil is still engraved upon Tom's mind, there every time his eyes close as he blinks. It's present on his ring, housed within the stone that sits upon his finger, and for a moment, Tom stares blankly at the ugly gem.

Could it be? His uncle had bragged of the Peverell legacy, was it possible that-

"Shit. That grinning freak has the cloak."

Lestrange's obvious conclusion pulls Tom from his thoughts, and as he considers his fellow Slytherin's words, he finds himself grimacing in distaste.

That is, not good at all. Just Harry seems impossibly to pin down, and Tom's attempt to rip the cloak from him will take far more planning and energy than he currently has to spare. Never mind that spells seem to just pass through his body, that he can seemingly disappear from the world at will.

"No wonder he disappeared," Malfoy hisses, eyes narrowed as he checks the obnoxiously large pocketwatch that cannot be removed from his person. The handles haven't changed in the slightest, petrified in position.

"He'll turn up again," Tom asserts, and he knows that for certain. Just Harry seems quite content to continue making a nuisance of himself, has appeared again and again since Tom had first found himself in this 'Hallowland', he had proclaimed the place as his own, though that could mean anything at all. The implications make Tom uneased, that much is certain.

The trio of Slytherins share an assessing look in response to the certainty in their leader's words, but Tom fails to pay them too much attention. He has a new idea to play about with, a new concept to consider.

.

The Master of Death, huh?

.

Night falls as abruptly as Tom's hopes for an easy solution. That is to say quickly, and with all the impact of a meteor striking the earth. An unearthly glow descends from the moon, and the cast of the lighting reminds Tom uncomfortably of the Chamber of Secrets.

Malfoy's hair lustres silver beneath the starlight, Lestrange's dark curls bleeding into the black of the night. In the darkness, the mice upon Avery's sword seem to dance together along the blade, though thankfully they make no noise.

It is as if all the colour has drained from the world, leaving them in a distressing monochrome, nothing more than images upon newsprint.

Looking down at his robes, Tom notes that is Slytherin tie seems to have faded, becoming a lacklustre combination of greys. No, it is not just a trick of the light, all the colour has seeped from the world alongside the sun. Hallowland seems an even more apt description now.

"This place is awful," Malfoy hisses under his breath, fear lingering beneath his attempted bravado. It's evident in all of their faces, in the stress lines that edge the curves of Avery's mouth, in the creases that hang low beneath Lestrange's eyes.

They're not coping well, and Tom knows that his own discomfort sits heavy inside his stomach, for all that it does not show upon his face. He is too good at the masks now, perfected it to the point it has become difficult to remove. He feels more comfortable with it, feels as if he has more control by wearing a façade of confidence.

Though even he feels as if his insides are cracking.

No time managing spell works it this place, Tom doesn't have the slightest clue how long he's been gone, nor does he know if anyone is observing him, waiting for him to trip up and expose himself as a rising darkness to rival Grindelwald.

It irks him, having to temper himself, to temper his spells. But he can do nothing, not when he's in enemy territory, not when he has not been attacked first. If Just Harry goes for the kill, then Tom will do everything in his power to remain alive, and will probably be able to wiggle out of the Ministry's justice system with a claim of self defence. Especially with families like the Malfoys and the Lestranges backing him up.

Until he is attacked in such a way though, he cannot possibly warrant the use of such spells, no matter how much he burns to do so.

His anger is a powerful thing, concealed as it is, clawing away at his innards until it feels as if nothing but a shredded mess scorches away inside of him. All that occurs around him does nothing other than to add kindle to the flames, stoking it to greater heights, leaving Tom to choke on the thick smoke that he cannot free himself of.

If the other Slytherins are away of the imminent danger that remains within their midst, they do not acknowledge it, instead quietly agreeing that they should stop and sleep.

Spells are cast, runes drawn and amateur wards erected. Even then, not even the slightest illusion of safety has been contrived, not that it was ever there to begin with.

Tom transfigures himself a bed -colourless, no matter how he tries to stain it green and silver- and nestles himself within the covers. As the others make their own sleeping arrangements, Tom casts a selection of Parseltonuge spells upon his own bedding, going so far as to include an especially tricky one that would have his enemy attack those around him before it'd come after Tom himself.

While he'd rather not see the Slytherins picked off one by one, he wishes to see is own survival even more.

There is nothing he values more than his own continued existence.

.

Morning strikes swift, the sun actually rising, unlike its previous pattern of blinking in and out of existence. They have been left alone throughout the night, there has been no evidence of foul play and all of their spells appear to have held strong.

Colour has yet again returned to the world, and Tom slowly sits up in the confines of his bed to find clothing has appeared beside him. He ignores it, for the fabric is cut a little too similarly to that of Just Harry's outfit. Though it may be crass to wear the same robes again, to simply apply a freshening charm and continue on, it's far more favourable than to wear potentially cursed clothing.

The others agree, for their dismiss the offers, all of which are far more eccentric than Tom's simply white shirt and blue waistcoat, with matching pants. Though the boots look admittedly nice -certainly more so than the worn leather shoes that cover his feet at the moment- he will not bow. Lord Voldemort answers to none, and he will not be cowered into playing along with the stranger's disturbing games. They will continue east, and that will be that.

Tom doesn't bother to vanish his temporary bed, instead consulting his wand for east.

He regrets taking his eyes off the landscape, for when he looks up, it is not a grassy plainland that sprawls before him, but a seemingly endless ocean. Upon turning to look over his shoulder, he notes that their little encampment has become a small island, who's total cubic space grows smaller and smaller by the second.

A startled noise escapes from between Tom's lips before he can stop it, water licking at the butter soft leather of his shoes and he hastily backs up.

Both Avery and Lestrange swear in surprise, wands whirling as they transfigure their beds into a hastily created boat. Tom boards with all the presence and self-importance of a king, the others scurrying on after him like rats.

Both just in time, as the water rises, the taste of salt in the air.

Tom has only ever seen the ocean during the summer holidays of his childhood, looking out upon that vast expanse of water from the sandy shores.

Now there is not an inch of land within sight, no stability whatsoever and the half-forgotten tales of drowning sailors instantly surge to the forefront of his mind. For a single moment, fear stills him, and it is almost as if he can feel the salt water already scraping at the inner-lining of his throat, choking him from the inside out.

Yet, there's something wrong with the water. It is exactly the same as the ocean from his childhood, but at the same time, there seems to be something more to it. Another dimension, like a visual that sits just upon the borderline of the spectrum, shimmering in and out of existence to forever remain out of his grasp.

"What is wrong with this place," Tom snarls beneath his breath, trying to identify the extra substance, and feeling his fury burn hotter when he fails at that.

"I've told you, Tom," The voice echoes through the air, and Just Harry's smile is suddenly reflecting upon the crest of every wave, "Hallowland is mine. A reflection of the real world, but better suited to my needs."

"I don't recognise half of the things occurring." Quidditch is one thing, but this extensive body of water; the earth has more of this than land, but it holds no magical significance. Not beyond whispers of Atlantis anyway.

"That's because it's my game we're playing, not yours." Now he just sounds drily amused, as if Tom were unknowingly reading from a script that Just Harry had wrote himself.

"You're lucky I let you have any pieces to play at all."

The three Slytherins tense at that term of address. Tom knows that all they are is pawns though, pawns in a bigger game that Tom himself has only just apparently being eligible to play in.

The question is, is this a game of chess, of a game of life? Is it one opponent, or are there more waiting in the long shadows that this Just Harry character casts?

Suddenly, that playful, taunting voice is gone, and in its place sits a heavy, stern tone that stills Tom's blood.

"Our actions come back to haunt us, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I do believe it is time you learnt that."

And with that a shade appears in the ocean mist.

.

.

* * *

.

"Oh Merlin, not her." But it is.

Myrtle Warren, a horrid spectre in intangible Hogwarts robes floats before them. It is her tears that feed this ocean, her tears that trickle into its depths and increases its capacity.

For a moment, Tom is struck dumb by the sheer ridiculousness of this fact, but it is undeniable. The substance he was previously unable to identify is in fact, the ghostly quality that water both holds and releases, a broken film that sets over reality.

Now that her presence has been acknowledged, her bemoans and whimpers echo through the air, complaints of Olive Hornby and her bullying ways, of her poor grades and even poorer appearance, are as welcomed a sound as nails upon a chalkboard. Tom physically checks the instinct to cover his ears, and uncouth as such a thing would be.

How has Just Harry figured it out? How does he know that Tom was the cause of Moaning Myrtle's death?

Say what you would about Hornby, but that was an rather apt nickname she'd come up with regarding the Mudblood Ravenclaw, one that the Slytherins had taken to snickering about in the common room.

Right up until her death that was.

While this normally wouldn't have stopped them, it was the sheer fact Warren had died on Hogwarts grounds, inside its very walls. While the Pureblood greatly approved of killing off the filthy blood that stained the castle's hallowed halls, that particular death had been just a little too close to home for them to really celebrate it. Such a thing was in poor taste, they whispered.

Regardless, there had been no evidence, nothing to connect Tom back to his most heinous crime; murdering a child. Only Dumbledore knew that he could talk to snakes, a slip from an young, overeager tongue. Even the deputy headmaster had been unable to truly connect the dots, not when Tom had gone to so much effort to erase their very existence.

Yet, here this stranger whispers buried truths that would do better to never be unearthed again. Not for a long while, not until the law can no longer hold Tom. He is so deliciously close to freedom, in his final year at Hogwarts, and he will not be caught. Lord Voldemort will not be stopped.

"Moaning Myrtle?" Lestrange questions, eyes filtering to Tom and back.

For the other Slytherins, it had been a process of elimination to conclude who was the true heir of Slytherin. Had to been a pureblood, they'd have bragged.

As such, suspicion fell upon the half-blood shoulders of Tom Riddle, who'd background was as mysterious as the very idea of the Heir of Slytherin even existing. Ever since, they had followed him out of fear. To have it confirmed for them though…

"Are you aware, Tom Riddle, that a Basilisk can travel through water as well as they do across land?"

There is a moment of tense, horrible silence, before the surface of the ocean bursts. It is not the great snake, the king of the serpents that rises from its depths though. Instead merpeople flip through the air, shark-human hybrids dancing alongside them, before the proclaimed ophidian appears.

Tom's stomach flips and then sinks like a rock when he notes the red plume upon the creates head. It is not Slytherin's basilisk, it is not one predetermined to answer his call, to obey simply for the blood that runs through his veins, tainted as it is.

This is a free Basilisk, larger than even Slytherin's, and Tom does not like his chances.

Lestrange actually screams in terror, while Malfoy cowers behind the lopsided mast. Avery faints, useless deadweight that he is.

Tom adamantly does not meet the Basilisk's gaze, instead staring at Just Harry as he appears besides Moaning Myrtle. The ghost instantly stops wailing, lacking onto the stranger as if he is a physical presence. An impossibility for a ghost. What is he?

Tom files away the fact that Just Harry seems quite unbalanced with Warren hanging onto his arm for future reference. Is it all ghost, or just specifically her? For if it is the latter, Tom can at the very least understand.

A vapid airhead, Warren had actually believed she had a chance with him, that he'd sweep in and ride off into the sunset with her atop a white hippogriff. A stupid little girl with stupid little daydreams. Daydreams she'd paid dearly for. Tom hadn't been aiming for her specifically, but if he couldn't off Dumbledore, at least he's gotten the second greatest annoyance in his life out of the way.

" _Kill the one of Salazar's blood,_ " the stranger hisses, and Tom freezes for a moment in terror.

In the next second, he is freezing the surrounding water to escape across, as the bulk of the Basilisk's body comes down upon their makeshift boat.

"Parseltongue won't save you this time, Riddle!"

There's a pause, before the stranger sighs and flops in on himself.

"It's just not the same, not as dramatic. I should have known I would struggle to play this role, but it's interesting to see the switch."

What in the name of Merlin is he talking about?

Tom has but a second to consider before he is once again forced to flee across thin ice, the Basilisk's vicious teeth snapping at the air mere centimetres away from his body.

He can hear the other three Slytherins, screaming and fleeing. Cowards.

Tom wants to rage and roar and to burn them for their treachery, only he's too occupied keeping himself alive for a few more seconds. He cannot look upon the Basilisk without risking certain death, and he cannot kill it with magic, for its scales are the most magic resistant substance on earth. Panic blazes through him as he flees, as he tries to apperates and fails. Chances of survival are slim, and while he has his Horcruxes -two of them, two lifelines- he does not want to spend who knows how long attempting to rebirth himself. He knows Horcruxes will prevent him passing on. He has yet to research making a new body; he'd thought he had no more time than this!

"Mmm, you know what, I don't think a phoenix is going to be coming to your rescue. Though I suppose it's only fair..."

Tom chances a glance towards the psychotic Just Harry and blanches at the sight of the Basilisk beside him. Only, it's eyes are covered by a thick red blindfold, confusing both the Heir of Slytherin and the Basilisk itself.

"And Slytherin's weapon... Doesn't surprise me he favoured long-range rather than close combat."

And then there's a bow.

Tom recognises it from the paintings in the common room, from the entries in Salazar's journals. Slytherin's Bow.

With little care, he snatches up the valued antique, feeling the quiver of arrows settle upon his back. Tom has no experience whatsoever with archery, has never taken any interest at all, but this is different. Salazar's bow was designed especially to slay basilisks, just in case one ever broke free of his command, Salazar needed a way in which to kill the rebellious creature. Each arrow tip is said to be dipped in the venom of a basilisk, and coated with the fluid from the venomous sac of a Nudu. A legendary weapon, one lost to the ages, and one Tom has never even considered possibly finding.

He cannot stop the admire it though, and the Head Boy is forced to perform a clumsy forwards roll in order to avoid the Basilisk's flailing tail. Why Just Harry has blinded his own weapon, Tom doesn't have the slightest clue. It's comparable to tying a cat's two front paws together; it might hinder it, but eventually it'll work around that hindrance and catch it's mouse.

" _You might not be able to see him, but you can smell him._ "

Who's side is this bastard on?!

Tom snarls, rolling out of the way and drawing at arrow. He fires, specifically at the blindfold of the Basilisk, but his lack of training with the weapon shows, the arrow glancing off the serpents side and bouncing harmlessly into the water.

Tom hits himself with an odourless charm, hastily creating more ice to retreat onto as the Basilisk approaches. It's not smooth ice, and his shoes slip and slide across the surface of the frozen waves, scrambling for purchase.

In the air, he can feel the eyes of Just Harry and Moaning Myrtle following his every move, the ghost still clinging to the stranger's side despite his valiant attempts to dislodge her. Good, let him suffer for a bit.

Under a silencing charm, Tom curses as another arrow rebounds from the beast's reinforced hide, desperation clawing at his insides and setting his blood aflame. He has no experience with a bow, has never seen the need to learn. If he ever gets out of this madness though, he will learn how to wield his ancestors bow with lethal results.

He draws another arrow, the sleek wood gripped in hand as he's forced to throw himself to a side, avoiding those snapping, poisonous jaws. If even the slightest bit of that venom gets in his bloodstream, he's dead, that Tom knows for sure. Well, not completely dead, but a bodiless wreath, and that's practically death for him right now.

He still has a great many things he wants to do before having to go through the time consuming procedure of having to create another body. Like tracking down this traitorous Slytherins, and wringing Just Harry's neck nice and tight until his eyes pop out.

.

The climax of the battle is an understandable relief, is somewhat understated.

It is pure luck that Tom managed to catch the Basilisk just as it's reorienting itself after another full body slam. It's pure luck he manages to stab the Basilisk through the eye with an arrow -what a waste! He could have used such a magnificent beast to far greater effect than what the stranger does-, killing it if not instantly, than quickly at the very least.

He's exhausted, his muscles quivering under the pressure he's exposed them to, chest heaving for breath, and he's still not alone so cannot afford to let his guard down.

Their eyes meet, green holding dark blue steady, before Just Harry grins. It's almost a proud smile, were his lips not cracking under the pressure, blood seeping and beading steadily upon the dry flesh.

"Well done," he says, a simple wave of his hand dissolving Warren as if she were of no significant meaning. Something they can agree on at least. Though why he'd allowed her to cling so tightly to him, when clearly he was more than capable of banishing her right away, Tom doesn't have the slightest idea. He doesn't understand the stranger, and doesn't even want to attempt puzzling out how his twisted mind works. Were Tom even somewhat capable of following Just Harry's logic, that means thinking somewhat similar to him.

Such a thing is unacceptable.

"You did well, didn't even get poisoned," Just Harry muses, one hand rubbing at the crook of his elbow, head tilting to a side and a considering look crossing his face.

It's a weighty thing, and it makes Tom shift, gathering another arrow from the quiver just in case. Spells might have passed through Just Harry, but perhaps one of Slytherin's legendary projectiles will be able to fell him if needs must.

"Why are you going west though? I told you to go east, you wouldn't have even encountered the Basilisk." A pout.

The lunatic actually pouts at him, and Tom can feel his anger erupt from a gentle simmer to a ferocious boil, barely capable of keeping the lid on it.

"I have no reason to trust you," Tom responds, tone bland even as he carefully shifts his weight about on the thick ice beneath his feet. It's already melting around the edges, battered by the salty waves of the ocean, and Tom momentarily bemoans the loss of the hastily made raft.

It is surely going to be a pain, to continue on towards the shore -a shore he cannot see- by constantly freezing the water that surrounds him.

He also has to track down his cowardly cohorts, if only to extra revenge upon them. They deserve it, for abandoning him so quickly to his fate, fleeing in a mass of hastily swimming limbs and dripping hair. Tom will show them exactly what their 'loyalty' has gifted them with. Pain, oh yes. There will be a lot of pain involved.

The sea suddenly shifts around him, a wave of immense mass cresting just beside of him and before Tom can even begin to think about reacting, it's swept both him and his little iceberg up.

The water closes up over his head, panic claws at his throat even as his wand finds its way into his hand. One clutching at Slytherin's bow, the other making a valiant attempt at impressing the wand into his palm, Tom twists his magic to launch himself up to the sky.

He surfaces, sucking in a great breath of air, Hogwarts robes far too heavy and dragging him back under the surface. Another charm, weightless this time, takes care of their life threatening weight, and Tom's head rises from the ocean once again.

It is still now though, and it's only after a moment of treading water that he realizes why.

Impossibly, he is mere metres from shore.

A stretch of beach, looking far warmer than the sole English one he has seen before sits within reachable distance. The tropical looking trees weather the gentle kiss of the wind well, their oversized leaves rising and falling in far smoother motions than what the sea's waves are managing.

It is such a pleasant change from the formerly endless stretch of ocean that Tom hastens his swimming to approach the golden sands that much quicker. He stumbles up the stretch of beach, quickly stripping himself of the outer-layer of robes, for it is exceptionally warm here.

A moment passes as he collapses onto the sand, coming to terms with his near death at the hands of Just Harry and his Basilisk, of his sudden acquisition of Slytherin's bow -thought to have been destroyed by Gryffindor when Tom's ancestor left Hogwarts- and his current predicament. This place is the height of madness, and Tom has no choice but to play along, to accept what may come.

As soon at the thought crosses him mind, hissing reaches his ears, and the Slytherin Head Boy tenses at the dulcet tones of Parseltongue.

Only, it is not Just Harry's voice.

With a sinking feeling of absolute exhaustion, Tom recognises exactly who that voice belongs to, and is incapable of not running his hands over his face.

He does not what to spend any more time with his maternal family, but it appears as if he will have no choice in the matter.

.

* * *

 **I am going to try updating this once a week, but next week is my big deadline week, so we'll see how well that pans out.**

 **Regardless, here's Tom's latest escapades throughout Hallowland, with guest appearances from Myrtle and a Basilisk. I honestly don't have much planned out for this, so we'll see how it all goes; I've only got a very tentative outline for the next chapter. Please excuse any mistakes, 90% of this was wrote in the past 24 hours.**

 **As far as I am concerned, the quote that applies most to Tom from Alice in Wonderland is '** ** _But I don't want to go among the mad people,_ '. **

**Thank you for all your reviews, I'm glad people are giving this word waffle a read.**

 **Tsume**

 **xxx**


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